


if Death is kind

by tenderthings



Series: all soul's day [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dalish Lore, Gen, Horror, Speculation, dragon age halloween week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderthings/pseuds/tenderthings
Summary: When they were kind, the people flourished. When they were angry, the city went untarnished. None of them—not even Elgar'nan—would threaten the purity of Arlathan.(for the prompts: what lies in the Black City +  “is there anything worse than death?”)





	if Death is kind

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for day three of da halloween week.

 

* * *

 

"Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,  
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,  
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending  
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white."

—excerpt from "If Death is Kind" by Sara Teasdale

 

* * *

 

It was once golden, that much is true. Its birth came about during a time of peace, when kings were not yet gods and gods were not yet fools. They were young, and happy, and victorious. The skies still held the softest touch of green.

The city was not their first creation, but it was their best. In time, it became the last good thing they did for one another without malice or cruel intent.

Its walls shimmered in the sunlight, its peaks glinted beneath the moons. There was never a sleeping moment, but the streets were serene. There was no need to rush as glory, goods, and people came and went through the seven great gates in droves. Wherever one was, a bounty could be found, a fortune could be made. The only burden the people carried was their love for their lords.

Fresh water flowed through the city as its lifeblood, falling in endless streams from distant and hidden aqueducts as an ocean in captivity. Old and ancient trees went untouched, growing between, around, and amongst the many towers. The lowest branches sprouted the freshest fruit, the highest offered shade from the glittering, crystal spires. All those below did not know the cruelty of the sun, but rather the warmth of their gods.

When they were kind, the people flourished. When they were angry, the city went untarnished. None of them—not even Elgar'nan—would threaten the purity of Arlathan.

It was beautiful. __They__  were beautiful. Now, what glimmered and shone, haunts and hungers, waiting to be felt once more.

This is not their home, this is not their throne. It was never meant to __be__ , but they have no choice but to slumber within black halls, the absence of the sun, the moons, the mother eating away what is left of their bones. It aches, like no wound ever should. __She was their heart; why did they cut out their heart?__

In this place, of darkest lust and cruelest laughs, god-kings and divine-queens linger on. They claw at the walls. Andruil wails into the night, but there is no night here—only the sleek, seep of dead magic from the ceiling and the sky itself. She is without means to kill and they all must watch her twist, the madness she once forgot returning to her like the cruelest kiss.

Spirits look on. The demons look away. They know them by their true names. The proud and lonely dog never chose his, but they did.

Together, they drank from the fount of knowledge, first as a means to an end, then as a way to understand it. When the end became certain, it was only a matter of time before they’d forget who they really were. Fear is quite the trick.

Now, they see the quick-children beyond the gates. Dirthamen knows what they are and Falon’Din shudders in want; the shemlen have come so far as to know how to walk even in their dreams. Yet, they live and die for another god. It makes the the brothers sick.

Humans, even stupid and blind, breached their walls once and found only __black black black__  and the blood stained satin seat where Mythal fell, two daggers at her back, four in her sides, one in her chest. Ghilan'nain wept, her hands cradling her head. Mythal opened her mouth to plead, or to curse, or to say goodbye, before the youngest of them broke her neck like she would any poor, hurt creature. The crack rang through the halls and she has not stopped crying since.

When the deed was done, none stopped to even close her eyes. She went into the Beyond, eyes and mouth agape, blood gathering in a pool beneath her silken dress.

She gathered them to speak of peace, promising merriment and a feast. She missed her brothers and sisters. She missed Solas. She missed them all, so much, and wanted to begin anew under a new banner, a new name, a new disdain. This time, their rage would be aimed at the coming invaders and their lost brother would return to them at last.

They did not hesitate. She was smiling softly in the way she did, loving and sure, when her once-husband took her in his arms and held her still.

“Elgar'nan,” she said, confused. “What is it?”

June knew no quarter then. Where the rest only struck once, he did again and again and again, shaking as he screamed. He did not want this, to hurt her of all things, but if they were to do this, they had to see it through. His face is streaked with burns, in lieu of the blood that splattered across his face, his clothes, his skin. She must’ve passed a spell of sorts, for his eyes burnt away too.

Blindly, he builds and builds. Ladders and stairs, windows and weapons, but when he turns his head, they all disappear. He is never certain they were there in the first place. He has no hands here.

The Beyond has become its name—impossible and unknown. Water no longer flows. The trees are barren, dead. When June takes from their bark, all that comes out is dust. Soon, he will sweep the city clean, but that day may never come. Arlathan was never meant to know an end to anything.

Only the Daughter sits still. She lays where her mother fell. When the Dread Wolf came for them, she did not resist. She sunk to her knees and prayed at her own altar, wishing she was what she claimed to be.

Her own children are dead, slaughtered in their beds when the slaves rose up. Her children and her children’s children gone, their homes grown cold, abandoned, then wiped away altogether. She felt them go. She knows Solas would never cause such a thing, but she—they, __we__ —had done too much to see it ever undone. They deserved it. They deserved it all.

Arlathan was beautiful. Now, all it is a bed for the dead.

~~But gods do not know true slumber. Old and older gods still, awaken.~~

 

 


End file.
